


Antivenom

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:37:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tf-rare-pairing prompt Drift/Ratchet 'hazy'.  Set during AHM, with a side order of Insecticon headcanon.  Oh yeah, and the lubricant is graphite/molydenum disulfide based, because I dunno.  Dry lubricants are a thing that exists, so.....that's about as much excuse as I've got.  Consider this an experiment in writing sticky so the people who are like EWWWW FLUIDS can't complain. *jazzhands* look ma, no fluids. <s>actually, don't look, ma, I'm writing robosmut</s></p>
            </blockquote>





	Antivenom

 

This…was not a standard medical treatment. Ratchet just wanted to remind himself of that, you know, for the record. While he could think, at least, because Drift’s mouth on his throat, hot and rasping over the cabling, was making it really hard to think straight. “Drift,” he said—well, croaked more likely.

Drift just hummed, an acknowledgement of his words, but he didn’t stop, and his hands kept moving, exploring the crannies and peaks of Ratchet’s back kibble, fingers surprisingly light for a mech who fought with swords, whose knuckles were silver-scraped and battered from wear.

“Drift,” he repeated, one hand finding one of Drift’s spaulders. “This really isn’t the time.” Or place. Or anything. Cybertron right now, overrun by the Swarm, was hardly a place for a romantic little idyll. Not that there was any ‘romance’ in the needy way Drift’s hands ran over his body.

“Might not have another,” Drift murmured, looking up, heavy-lidded, from the nuzzle to Ratchet’s throat. “Dangerous out there.”

“Dangerous in here, too,” Ratchet retorted, but he couldn’t quite bring it in himself to pull away.

“Mmm,” Drift said, curling up from the ersatz mediberth to brush his mouth on Ratchet’s chin. “Maybe I like danger.”

“You like danger too damn much,” Ratchet said, trying to find his usual professional scowl. “How you got in this condition to begin with.” Drift must have run into one of the Swarm kings out there: larger bugs, venomous mandibles, and a poison that did…strange things.

Like, apparently, in Drift’s case, making him frisky as all frag. “Only thing wrong with my condition is that you’re still up there,” Drift said, writhing his hips seductively on the berth. Or maybe not ‘seductively’. Ratchet wasn’t exactly an expert in this stuff.

“I’m a medic. You’re a patient.”

“No,” Drift pouted. “I’m pretty impatient right now.”

Oh, frag. Not the terrible jokes. Ratchet wished they were a symptom of king-venom, but nope. That was just Drift. “Drift,” he said, narrowing his optics in warning, trying to catch one of the swordsmech’s hands, just as it drifted to his aft.

“I’m fine,” Drift said. “Just a little, you know, turned on.” He raised the hand Ratchet had caught to his own mouth, kissing Ratchet’s knuckles. “You have good hands.”

“That wasn’t my intent.”

“Wasn’t my intent to get bit by one of those things, either,” Drift said. “I’m just trying to go with the flow.” Which to Drift apparently meant nuzzling his way up Ratchet’s wrist, now.

Ratchet could feel his will eroding. Because fraternization was technically against the rules, but, really, in a crumbling city on a dying Cybertron, surrounded by death under a sky that never changed from flat violent grey, maybe some rules didn’t matter. If you could die tomorrow—and the odds of that leapt upward every day—was it so wrong to bend a few rules if it could bring some comfort?

He wanted to argue, to say Drift could do better, find someone else, but he knew that for a lie: half the Autobots here didn’t trust the ex-Decepticon. Bumblebee made no bones about not trusting him, and when they’d rolled back in from the mission, even Perceptor hadn’t worried where Drift was when he hadn’t returned with them.

And still Drift fought for them, and saved Ironhide on the bridge, and asked for nothing in return except…well…this.

“Drift,” he said, his hands moving to the white spaulders, feeling the silky enamel underneath, and stopped, unsure how to continue.

Drift gave a cautious, tentative half-smile, curling up from the berth again, his arms twining around Ratchet’s neck. “Stop talking,” Drift whispered, just before their lipplates met, and this time, Ratchet bent down over the mech, one hand falling from the spaulder to brace his weight, levering his hips up beside Drift.

Ratchet felt a shivering squirm in his belly, not quite fear, but not the usual confidence he felt in a medibay. It had been a long time since he’d been like this, lying outstretched next to another mech, lips still tingling from a kiss, whole bodies craving touch. He almost didn’t know where to start: his hand moved to Drift’s chassis, thumb grazing over the Autobot insignia. He could feel the raised metal of the Decepticon brand underneath, the rough weld worn smooth by centuries, enameled over, felt the way Drift’s ventilations caught at the light touch. Ratchet moved his hand to Drift’s throat, fingertips tracing the pistons and cable housings which elicited a soft purr of the grounder’s engine, a vibration that seemed to turn the air between them into velvet.

Drift lay for a moment, optics half-closed, softening under the touches, and then he moved, a warrior’s speed and reflexes, and Ratchet found both his shoulders on the berth, Drift’s body a warm and urgent weight on his. “I want you,” Drift breathed, a flash of blue optics before Drift busied his mouth on Ratchet’s audio, down his shoulder, Drift’s frame undulating on top of him, armor sliding over his, the swordsmech’s battered hands greedy for contact.

“I’m…not exactly resisting.” The closest Ratchet was coming to resistance was wondering if he should have locked the door first. He could feel the heat from Drift’s interface hatch, the tingling of charged ions against his own as the mech ground against him, his own hands playing along Drift’s back, finding the little attachments from which the Great Sword normally hung.

Drift arched up with a whimper at the touch, a throaty growl playing around a half-smile, as he pushed back, slithering down Ratchet’s body, pausing to kiss a trail down Ratchet’s belly, pausing at the edge of the interface hatch. He looked up, over the length of Ratchet’s chassis, one hand bending up to find the medic’s grip on his spaulder, while his other traced, just once, the line of the interface hatch.

It felt like it was on fire: Ratchet could feel a line of heat trace the edges of the hatch. His spike thrummed in its housing as Drift’s hand turned, cupping over the red metal. “Good,” Drift said. “You just…keep doing that.” He bent his head, lowering his warm mouth to the interface panel, glossa sending electrons in a dizzying, spinning dance through the metal.

“Yeah. You…uh…keep doing that, too.” What? He wasn’t good at this sexy talk stuff. It was the thought that counts. Or. Something.

He felt his hatch click open, the panel sliding aside, and the heat of Drift’s ex-vents against his equipment covers, and it felt like all the energon in his body was pooling in his belly, swirling and warm, a living thing, tempted and teased by Drift’s mouth. His valve hatch yielded first, Drift’s hand probing along the silvered rim, pressing against the center of the spiraled iris of plating until they yielded and Ratchet felt his hips rise, into the touch, as if trying to lure those fingers inside.

Drift gave a sound, half a laugh, the vibration stirring the tingling pressure in Ratchet’s belly, and he felt a slick release of lubricant in his valve, and by the way the smile quirked on Drift’s face, he knew the other mech felt it, too, the way the grey powder coated his fingertips as he probed into the valve, parting the careful, neat pleats of mesh. Drift’s head lowered, audial finial resting on Ratchet’s thigh, just…watching, his fingers exploring the valve, thumb flicking up to tease the spike cover.

Ratchet felt himself squirm, as though the roiling hot energy in his belly was making him restless. “Drift. Thought you wanted….”

“…this,” Drift said, without moving, optics rapt, whole body subtly taut, feeling, feeding on the little tremors that ran through Ratchet’s frame.

He looked up, the blue eyes half-febrile, and then he moved, that uncanny grace that he had, something he’d picked up somewhere between Rodion and now, the lubricant-smeared hand moving to his own interface hatch in one smooth, easy gesture, unsheathing his spike, sliding himself home into the valve, vents of air hissing through his teeth. “Better?”

Ratchet couldn’t answer for a long moment, the sudden movement, the sudden presence, heat and girth inside him set off a chain of tactile responses: the valve cycled down, clamping around the intrusion, as though trying to lock Drift in place till he could process it all.  "It's. Yeah." Better?  Close enough.  It felt like crossing a line, but then again, he'd probably crossed that line a long time ago--lines like this were hazy and indistinct, sometimes, between patient and friend, between lost spark and lover. 

Drift didn't seem to lose too much energy worrying about that sort of thing, ever, and Ratchet felt a twinge of something like jealousy: Drift's world was so simple, black and white, on and off, fight and...fight some more. Take pleasure where you could, when you could, and trust the future to sort everything out, neatly stepping over 'complications' along the way. 

Drift's weight settled onto him, elbows framing Ratchet's head, and he felt the slow, careful slide of the swordsmech's hips on his, the drag and deliciously slow thrust of the spike inside him, the graphite tumbling the building charge between them. It was achingly slow, and Ratchet got the feeling Drift was almost toying with him, fighting with himself--he could feel the ripple of the abdominal plating with each forward slide, as though Drift was fighting his own body, forcing the slow tempo, drawing this out. 

Ratchet muttered his name, half an imprecation, hands almost claws against the tapered waist, urging, goading at him until Drift shuddered, concentration shattered, and his body moved faster, more insistently, the friction between them pulling charge swiftly, like something on the brink of control, their desire taking over them, throwing everything aside except their urgent, needing bodies, the soft moans and murmurs that didn't need to be words, didn't need to be anything but sounds of praise and want, until they toppled over the brink, Drift biting the cry into Ratchet's throat as his body gave the hard jerk of overload, systems spasming under the sudden release of electrons, washing over them like a powerful tide, the air around them sharp with ions. 

Ratchet loosened his grip, where his hands had dug into a seam on Drift's spinal struts, his processor blurry and dizzy from the wash of current. It swam through his video feed, too, making everything look fuzzy, like it had a numinous halo.  "That," he said, clutching for composure, "was not the usual treatment for insecticon venom."

A twitch on the body over his: Drift's dead weight, loose with release, that took a moment for Ratchet to register as a laugh. "It should be."

Ratchet felt his mouth find his usual, customary frown. "Right. Then idiots like you would be lining up to get bit."

The laugh again, and Ratchet found it echoed in his own throat, pulling the last of the tension from his belly. "No," Drift said, pushing back up onto his elbow, nuzzling Ratchet's mouth. "Just me."


End file.
